John Constantine: Demon hunter, Bad Ass, Idiot
by SilverKitsune1
Summary: Even a bad ass needs to learn to lock his door.
1. Part 1

Title: John Constantine: Demon hunter, Bad Ass, Idiot

Author: Silverkitsune1 (this may be changing very soon)

Part: 1 of 2

Rating: R for language

Disclaimer: Neither Constantine nor Hellblazer belong to me. They are the property of Warner Brothers, and DC/Vertigo respectively.

Authors Note: Today children we're going to discuss the difference between a truth and a lie.

I do not have time to be writing fanfiction (truth) and until I finish my mass amounts of papers I will not be writing anymore (lie).

John Constantine is a bad ass. Chas knows this. It's not like it's a surprise. It's something you pick up when you first meet him. It's like saying John has black hair, or John is way too pale. It's a physical thing that you notice right away. Like, as both your palms are touching while you're shaking the guy's hand you're thinking, "Oh yeah, he's a bad ass. Better watch it." And the deeper you sink into the world John lives in, the more you can truly understand that John is a Grade A, high class, world renown bad ass. Underline, capital letters, written in blood.

_I cut too much off my nails yesterday, and now there's practically no nail, which is very very bad since it's leaving me nothing to fight back with._

The problem is, that Chas has been around him for so long, and he's come to learn that along side with being a bad ass (and an asshole) John Constantine can also be a really big idiot. John may have a hundred and one spells rubbed into the walls, etched over the door, painted under the bed (he'd always meant to ask about that one) and scratched in the cement around the bowling alley's foundation. John may be as safe as a newborn lamb when it comes to keeping the mystical forces of good and evil out of his apartment, but God forbid (and for all Chas knows He _had _(or should that be _hath_?) forbid. With John you've got to be aware that the explanation behind 95 percent of what he does is usually just plain fucking crazy) he go out and buy a dead bolt lock for the door.

_This dude is way too fucking big. There's blood dripping on me from the places where I tried to claw his face. I don't think he even felt them. What the hell is he on? This is not fair. I've got no chance here. Oh, god please someone get him off me. _

But oh, no, no. Just a flimsy little chain and a key lock for John Constantine the bad ass. It's not as though John lives in the safest part of town, and anyone with two god damn brain cells to rub together knows that just a chain and a key lock is not going to stop anyone whose mind is set on breaking it, especially in L.A. But Chas can only assume that because John Constantine is a bad ass, and since he knows he's a bad ass, that he's started to assume that no normal person would mess with a well-known bad ass' place.

_Thrash you idiot! Fight back! Use your entire goddamn body. Throw him off balance. Buck your hips. Get him off you! You've still got your arms free, elbow the bastard! Do something or you are going to die you moron!_

Everyone is going to die someday. It had been one of those surprise lessons he'd picked up from John. Surprise lesson because he'd thought he'd already learned it a long time ago, but hanging around John had Chas relearning a lot of things. People think they know that they're going to die, eventually. It's floating around somewhere in the back of their minds and it occasionally surfaces when a great aunt kicks the bucket or a young cousin chokes on a lima bean, but no one ever really believes it. So, it took Chas a few trips, a few experiences of seeing John walk out of apartment buildings, back alleys, Disney Land, or the sewers covered in blood, bile and the occasional bits of skin to truly understand that, one of these days he, Chas Kramer was going to die.

_Let. Go. Of. Me. You cracked up, cum guzzling, gutter slut. Oh, Christ. I'd like to be able to breathe again if you don't mind. _

The trouble was that now that he really understood that someday he would die, he had begun to form a general idea of how it was going to happen. He had no plans on leaving John, or turning away from the path of exorcist is training, someday exorcist in practice so he'd quickly ruled out dying warm in bed, at the age of 100, surrounded by fat grandchildren. He expected that it would come during job, chasing out a demon or fighting off a balance messing half-breed. He had not expected to die pinned to the floor of John's apartment (ignore that he'd been living there for almost three months now, this was always John's apartment), with the hands of a 23–year-old junkie wrapped around his throat.

_I make a grab for his hair. Black, greasy and falling over his shoulders. My left hand misses but the right grabs a hunk. He doesn't notice until I'm pulling so hard his head is tilting to the side. He's letting go, or at least letting up. Sweet, sweet oxygen._

The asshole currently strangling him to death broke in looking to steal a T.V., a CD player, a VCR (none of which, for fuck's sake, John even has) and instead found Chas eating a carton of left over fried rice and reading. Chas hadn't even moved when the door first banged open. He'd thought it was John. An intoxicated and swearing John, but that was a normal state of being for the exorcist anyway. The guy looked enough like John to have been mistaken for him at first glance. Pale skin, black hair, blood shot eyes, but the second he looked up, he knew he'd been wrong. John was older, John was taller, John's hair was shorter, his nose sharper and John would never ever wear a Grateful Dead t-shirt. (Far too many puns coming out of that).

_Motherfucker! The blow jerks my whole head to the side. The coppery taste of blood is on my tongue due to a split lip and his hands are back around my neck. Is this fucker muttering to himself? I'm going to be strangled to death to the soundtrack of a crazy person muttering to himself. That's just fantastic. John, come on man. Come home._

Chas, in all his skinny 17-year-old glory had actually managed to shake up the man who crashed through the door (drug addicts, you know they're more afraid you of you then you are of them). At least he thought he had. When the almost thief had seen Chas he'd froze, stared at him with dilated pupils and an accusing stare. Not looking away he'd reached behind him, fingertips brushing the doorknob, the whole time staring at Chas, weighing his options. A whisper in his ear, that he forgot the minute he heard it, pushed him into an obvious choice. The door slid closed. Chas stood up, put down his book, and slowly backed away, painfully aware that they were on the second floor, and he had nowhere to go. Then the door clicked shut.

_My feet kick out, and my hands are locked around his, but they sure as hell aren't moving anything. There's a black tide washing in across my eyes, little spots the color of bruises blocking out an angry red face. John is going to be so pissed that I died on his floor._

When the door opens he doesn't hear it. It's the smell that alerts him that anything has changed. Mix of cigarettes, sweat and what Chas is going to assume is blood that wafts under his nose, and even though he's far past almost conscious he finds himself feeling relieved (the smell of blood should not be a cause for relief. Repeat as necessary). He can't see him either, but Chas assumes if he's shocked to see his "oh, so appreciated apprentice" being strangled on the floor of his apartment he only dwells in it for the course of a few blinks. Heavy footsteps punctuated with what he's always considered (but never voiced) to be one of the most beautiful languages ever created suddenly fill the apartment. John spitting out acid laced nouns, verbs and adjectives with a voice that sounds like ashes and echoes from what appears to be a very far away place that Chas has just left. Trust John Constantine to make Latin sound angry instead of melodious.

_This is not the time to be chanting in Latin, John. This is not a demon. This is a crack addict. I swear to you there is a difference_.

Chas can't see what happens, but the chanting stops followed by a thud, and his would be murderer collapsed in a boneless heap on top of his unmoving body. Chas isn't dead (hallefuckinglujah), but he's not exactly in the greatest spot emotionally right now, and he'd like a few minutes to regroup before even trying to move (and when did moving become so tiresome?). That and the possibly unconscious, possibly dead ass hat on top of him isn't what he would call light so the lack of oxygen problem hasn't gone away yet, and joys upon joys, the black water slipping over his gaze has not receded either.

_John is saying something. I think. This had better be some kind of begging. 'Don't go I'd never forgive myself if you died on my apartment floor' kind of begging. I'm about to pass out here, John. I'd like some words of comfort to take into the black abyss if you don't mind._

"You had better be breathing you little asshole. I am not giving you mouth to mouth."


	2. Part 2

Title: John Constantine: Demon hunter, Bad Ass, Idiot

Author: Silverkitsune1 (this may be changing very soon)

Rating: R for language

Disclaimer: Neither Constantine nor Hellblazer belong to me. They are the property of Warner Brothers, and DC/Vertigo respectively.

Thank you to all the lovely people whoreviewed and enjoyedpart one. Extra thanks to my beta reader for taking the time out of her busy life to read this over for me.

Part: 2 of 2

Chas Kramer is not a bad ass. John knows this. It's not like it's a surprise. It's something you pick up when you first meet him. It's like saying Chas has brown hair or Chas is way too pale. It's a physical thing you notice right away. Like as your palm is lightly smacking the face of the kid who just five minutes ago had a demon trying to crawl it's way onto good old _terra firma_ via his gangly teenage body you're thinking, "Oh yeah, weak as a kitten. Better watch it." And the deeper you sink into the world John lives in, the more you can truly understand how undeniably dangerous it is to be without the bad ass title attached to the end of your name.

_I blinked. Twice, and it was two times too many. It shouldn't have happened, but in two minutes it won't matter. This asshole is going home. Latin didn't work, but that just means I'll have to dip into the Sanskrit. It never fails to annoy me when the Latin doesn't work. That's two surprises in one night. Oh yeah, officially pissed off._

The problem is that no one is born a bad ass. Anyone who tells you they were is lying. A person becomes a bad ass (it's a very simple process). A long time ago, something inside a person got broken, and since (for reasons being a bad ass saves you from having to discuss) the broken part never really heals correctly, you're forced to walk around doing anything and everything to forget about the pain. It's like trying to ignore two shards of a broken bone grating against one another in your chest. Tends to make people ornery (though in all honesty John was an ornery, self-centered, bastard in his pre-bad ass days anyway).

_It's not a demon. The thing killing my "oh, so appreciated apprentice" is a greasy, drugged up, human. Mother. Fucker._

Bas asses do not have emotional attachments of any kind. Not unless there is the possibility of a good fuck coming out of it somewhere down the line. To do that would break the bad ass code (which no one will ever write down, because to write it down would take away from being a bad ass). They can, however, occasionally grow attached to things. Things that are usually smaller, weaker and more often than not of the female sex. Then said bad ass will feverishly deny said attachment, until something occurs that makes them go just a tiny bit ballistic and show that the attachment is actually there. Even if the bad ass in question would rather let a dog play with his balls than admit it.

_It would be lying to say that I didn't enjoy smashing the back of this asshole's head in. I hadn't actually planned on using the iron cross Midnight sold to me. Thing must weigh four pounds, and I was going to melt the fucker down. Make bullets, maybe icons. Nice to see it has multiple uses._

All of this is not a problem for John. John is not attached to Chas. He is attached to his cigarettes. He is attached to the bottle of whisky underneath the sink. He would miss these things if they were gone. He is not _attached_ to Chas. He is _accustomed _to Chas. He is accustomed to the kid sleeping on his couch. He is accustomed to reaching for a book only to find that Chas is already nose deep in it. He is accustomed to the never-ending string of questions (half of which he answers half of which he ignores). He is accustomed to that ridiculous cap and accustomed to the cab that still smells like cloves, angel blood and fried chicken (long story).John doesn't consider killing the man who was strangling Chas ballistic. He considers that practical.

_Kid's face is blotchy. The lax of oxygen caused some of the blood vessels in his face to burst. It happens. He'll be fine. He's breathing, and all that blood will wash right off him._

When Chas wakes up, it's with a whimper and a cough (neither of which go straight to John's gut thank you very much). There's a fuzzy look in his eyes as he stares at John sitting cross-legged a few feet away, and John salutes him with a lit cigarette before smashing what little remains of it into the floorboards. Standing up, he offers Chas a hand.

_Yeah Kid, that's it, deep breaths, you're fine. Show me you've got some guts by not having a panic attack_.

The body is still in the corner, bleeding across the pock marked wood floor, but he'll be damned (ha fucking ha) if he's going to carry it down the stairs himself. Chas stands on shaky legs, gingerly running his fingers over the bruises around his neck. Wincing because of the freshly split lip. Chas can't see them, but the bruises are shaped like two handprints, and the sight of them make John's own hands twitch with the need to pour a drink or light another cigarette or kill something. He ignores the feelings(body, corner, priorities), and with a sigh slides his hand under the freshly dead man's armpits and lifts.

_For Christ sake, aren't people suffering from addictions supposed to be suffering from malnutrition? This fucker weighs 300 pounds. Fucking……Oh, no….don't you dare pass out kid. We are half way down the fucking stairs here and I'm below you. You are not allowed to look that white._

They drag the body into an alley across from the bowling alley. Even if anyone finds it (and yeah, they probably will) John doubts there will be any problems. He briefly considers cutting the guys liver out, (you'd be surprised just how much the black market will pay for any part of the human body) but instead lights another cigarette, and kicks the man in the side with enough force that he feels a few of the ribs break. His left foot will be sore tomorrow. When John emerges from the dark, Chas is still pale as milk and his teeth are chattering in the 95-degree L.A. heat.

_He throws up as we cross the street. Misses my shoes, but his will need to be hosed off._

There are a dozen questions John should ask. A thousand things he should say. But he's John Constantine, and not all that great at verbal comfort. Instead, he shepherds Chas back to his apartment and gets him drunk on the whiskey underneath the sink. They drink until Chas is practically passed out on the table and John's smoked through his current and emergency pack of smokes. John puts him to bed. (Not his bed thank you very much. You choose couch, you live with couch), then walks 16 blocks to talk with a hispanic college student who's paying for her tuition through the sale of certain rare goods. John trades two jugs of holy water, three cats eyes and an ACDC CD for a new spell to scratch over his door. As she hands him a folded piece of notebook paper, she gives him a kind of smile that John has been familiar with since he first hit a growth spurt and learned to look dark and brooding. She's cute enough to make John consider the invite (it's been a very long time since John got laid), but in the end he takes the spell and leaves.

_It's way too God damn late for this._

The spell is old and fickle. He can feel bits of power tumbling off the bit of paper as he trudges home. It sends jolts of power into his heart, his skull, his lungs, his groin (exactly how long had it been since he'd gotten laid again?). It takes concentration and all around hardheadedness to get the sucker to stick to the frame of his door (the wood is wrong and it doesn't want to merge with the unfamiliar), but most anything tends to listen to John after they've been properly persuaded. The morning passes, and John sleeps. When he wakes up again, it's noon and warm as hell (and he should know) in his apartment. He wanders around closing shades, blocking out the God given light that's trying to set him on fire when he sees Chas, staring at the new etchings above the door. Squinting against the light in order to read a dead language that maybe four other people in the entire world have even discussed in the past fifty years.

_Go ahead kid. Impress me._

"John, this spell causes people to suffocate to death if they cross the threshold without an invitation."

John Constantine is a bad ass. He knows this. He's had far too much shit happen in his life to be anything but. It's not a mask he can take on and off, it's not an act that he performs every time he's asked to yank a misbehaving half breed out of some 35-year- old banker in red high-heels, and it's definitely not an occupation he got into for the money. He knows right down to the marrow in his bones that he, John Constantine, is a top of the line, world shaking, cigarette smoking bad ass. Clint Eastwood eat your heart out. It's what you've got to be to survive in his line of work, and what Chas is going to have to become (specifically, it's what John is going to have to turn him into) if he wants to keep the kid alive (and he does in a very kind of, sort of, round about, unconventional, non-caring, non-attachment sort of way). But every time he thinks he's ready to do it, every time he's ready to push the kid off the first fucking cliff he can find, he pulls back. It's not that John hasn't broken people before (there have to be enough to form a club by now), but anyone intentionally broken by John Constantine, would turn out to be one hell of a bad ass. He's not sure if he's ready to deal with that kind of competition (or that kind of guilt) just yet.


End file.
